" "My poor son!" groaned the widow, sinking backwards. I should think, Anna, that your own sense—er—of propriety would enable you to see this. ” “It is Number 8, Cavendish Square,” she answered simply. She wished to view Sebastian again if only to reaffirm that there was a human being whose appearance remained unaltered by the vagaries of time and memory. But first, we’ve got to secure the convent. In all these weeks she had not once knelt to pray. “I cannot part with you.
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